The Burn (28 page)

That’s fuck all to do with it, the fucking money, I’m no bothered about that. He swallowed a mouthful of beer.

What then? What ye got against him?

I’ve no got nothing against him.

Ye have.

He’s just fucking irrelevant.

Derek stared at Fin, then at the table; he put his hand on the pint tumbler and gripped it.

Irrelevant.

Derek sniffed slightly, he looked at Fin.

Sorry. Fin turned his head away and muttered through his teeth, Fucking class thing! Fuck sake . . .

Derek relaxed his shoulders. He glanced round the room, it was busy, busy; he was gripping the pint tumbler again. He began to say something but so did Fin and they both stopped. It was Fin
continued: Dont fucking take this the wrong way Derek right?

Take what the wrong way?

What I’m gonni say.

What ye gonni say?

Dont take it the wrong way.

I dont know what it is yet.

Fin was silent.

On ye go but.

Fin sighed.

I’ll no take it the wrong way.

Jesus christ.

Go ahead.

Fin scratched his head, he glanced at a group of people sitting at a nearby table, they were talking loudly and laughing. He waited a moment before speaking: Ye see, what it is . . . dont
fucking take it the wrong way now.

I’m no gonni.

See what you done, it was so valuable, so valuable.

Derek watched him.

Knocking the stuff I’m talking about. I’m serious. It was man. For us: us from the sticks, ye know, the ones that thought we were unique.

What ye talking about?

It was a lesson. It put us in our place – put us back in our place. Aye it was a class thing, a total class thing.

Come on.

Ach come on fuck all man they had it drummed into us, the cream of the crop, we were special, so fucking ‘special’! Fin glared at Derek. The pride and joy! We were on our way. Fame
and fortune. The very worst was if we wound up with some good class white-collar job in an office. All that sort of crap. I’m thinking of my family, the way they saw it. Then for us it was
art, ye know I mean
art; art
– that made it even worse. I’m talking about for us, the fucking hillbillies. Because we could fucking be rebels at the same time. We could relax
while we were getting on in life; we didni have to feel guilty. Know what I mean?

Derek shrugged.

We were playing games. We were. Fucking pathetic. My maw and da are still like that ye know, they’re still expecting great things. Me on the broo; that job in the Parks Department, they
think it’s all a phase; they’re still walking about on a wee cloud of gold, cotton wool or something, candy-floss. They’re expecting me to get the call any minute. Our
specialness, that’s what we had to contend with – we were brought up with it. It drove us apart. Fucking isolated us man, the tip for the top. You’re talking about primary school:
see in mine, one of the fucking teachers there told my maw I might be up to university standard. Can ye believe it? Fuck sake! Eleven years of age I was. And it fucked me. It fucked me everywhere.
Especially with my pals, the wee boys I went about with: word got round. And the gulf started opening then, that was when it fucking happened, the great divide. Conversations used to stop when I
entered the company.

Uch away.

I’m fucking serious. There was this wee halo over my head, a golden glow. Plus they thought I was maybe a spy, the other weans, they thought I had to be carrying notes to the teacher
– quite right they thought that, quite fucking right. I mean see my maw and da now, see at this very minute, cause I’ve married a lassie that works in a bank; they’re expecting
their grandson to wind up fuck knows what, a doctor or something. No kidding ye man it’s like they’ve sired a thoroughbred stallion.

Derek smiled.

Honest. Listen to this too: fucking mate of mine, right, a guy I go climbing with, he went to Uni; know what they told him the very first day he arrived? I’m talking about a first-year
student, seventeen poxy fucking years of age: know what they told him?

What?

You’re the cream. You’re the cream son, that’s what they told him; you’re the top eight percent in this country. The other fucking ninety two’s a bunch of fucking
headbangers, that’s what they told him; some fucking lecturer, so-called Marxist – specialist in the lumpen proletariat – that’s what he fucking telt them! Well I’ll
tell you something man, I want to fucking go up fucking University Avenue and fucking strangle the bastard, that’s what I fucking want to do.

Mm.

No fucking kidding ye; it’s pathetic, just pathetic. And then they all go about gawking at each other; they do! Fucking gawking at each other! Total wonder and amazement at their own
fucking uniqueness. Whatever crap the lecturers dish them out too ye know they all listen to it, they all fucking listen to it. We were the same man. We all went about with this wee smile on our
fucking faces. Predestination. The chosen few. Bound for Glory.

Woody Guthrie.

Woody Guthrie.

No everybody falls for it.

No everybody falls for it, okay. Okay; no everybody falls for it. Fin had lifted his pint tumbler, he paused before drinking from it: But see cunts like McAllister Derek they’re the worst.
The so-called radicals. They’re just Sammys dressed up.

Derek laughed.

They are but. See if Sammy ever became a lecturer up there that’s what he’d be, another Joe McAllister, getting all the students following him about like wee puppy dogs, screwing all
the first-year lassies, getting all the boys thinking he was the greatest rebel in the world – genuine revolutionary and all that, Che Guevara on twenty grand a year plus perks for a twenty
six hour week. Ah for christ sake. Fin snorted, then began chuckling. Fucking crazy. They’re the worst but, it’s them keeps the system going; straight dialectics; they inject the new
energy, they give it the power, the fucking life, the weltenschang whatever ye call it. In fact they dont, they dont, they actually stop it; they stop it; they fucking crush it at birth.
You’re just lucky ye missed it. I had it for four years.

After a moment Derek said, So what’s my part?

Fin nodded.

Ye started off gonni tell me something, I wasni to take it the wrong way ye said.

Aye . . . Fin sighed, smiling: You went too soon man that’s your trouble.

I had nay choice.

Och I know, I know . . .

So what is it?

Uch nothing. I mean I’ve more or less said it. It’s no a big thing – although it is, in a way, it is; ye see ye left a lasting impression.

Yeh well.

Ye did. Ye fucking spurred me anyway. No at first but gradually, ye know, I’m dead serious, it’s a good kick up the arse I was needing. I mean . . . that’s what I was needing,
a good kick up the arse. Fin chuckled. They fucking hated what you did. Oh they did man dont fucking kid yerself. The unnameable. Whenever some cunt like McAllister started on with all that crap
about how any real artist will aye beat the system, there you were, with the swag bag, getting the boot, artist or no it doesni fucking matter. First it’s the economics, then after that
it’s the economics again.

Derek shrugged.

Dont underestimate it.

I dont.

It got in the way of the propaganda.

That means my life hasni been in vain.

Dont underestimate it.

I dont.

Fin nodded.

Ye just have a habit of sounding as if ye dont think I know fuck all.

Rubbish.

Is it?

Fuck sake Derek.

Ye’ve been patronising me all night.

I’ve no.

Ye fucking have.

It was a lesson ye see. For all the would-be revolutionaries; artist as rebel and all that, as long as ye dont interfere with the property.

Yeh.

I’m no patronising ye at all.

That’s good.

Christ that’s the last thing I’d do.

Anyway, let’s change the subject.

Ye keep saying I’m patronising ye man, and I’m no.

Just let’s change the subject.

Fuck sake. Fin shook his head.

Just the now, ye know, cause of my mother and that.

I’m sorry.

Derek nodded. Want a whisky or something?

No really, naw.

I feel like one . . . Look Fin it was a fucking brainstorm what I did. Just fucking stupidity, right. That’s all it was. The stuff was lying there and it was an empty room. I’m no
even sure now if it wasni a prank. A prank, know what I mean. Maybe it was. I canni even remember. Total stupidity.

But what are mothers for eh! I left it for her to sort out. Derek smiled. When I didni know what to do next, I left it for her; the stuff Fin, I left it on the bed. I got off my mark. I couldni
handle it. But it didni break her heart. In fact she was quite a wise auld dame. Quite shrewd. Quite shrewd . . . Derek stopped to breathe in. He smiled again, took off the hat and footered with
the brim. After she returned them the stuff Peterson went up to see her.

I heard that.

He told her I was a silly boy but they wereni gonni press charges.

Cheeky bastard.

Wish to fuck I’d just dumped the stuff.

That woulda really done it, they only had it on loan.

Yeh! I woulda taken that into consideration! Derek shook his head: Fucking indignity but eh fucking indignity – the whole thing.

Fin was silent for a moment, then he said: Some of them probably still hate ye for it ye know, stealing their thunder as potential rebels.

A legend in my own lifetime eh, Sydney Devine.

Fin chuckled.

Imagine influencing a generation but, think I’ll go and impress that lassie in the black tights. Derek put the hat back on his head: Sure ye dont want a short?

Uch okay, if ye’re having one.

Whisky?

Aye.

As Derek walked to the bar he could see the phone being used, a guy talking into it. Once it was free he would try Audrey’s number again – better now before the drink started
hitting. He put both hands on the edge of the bar, shifting his stance; maybe go for a curry after, he was bloody hungry as well.

The barmaid came past and he called for two whiskies. Glenmorangies, he said, would ye make it doubles . . . She turned to the gantry without acknowledging him, sticking the first glass up under
the optic.

The phone was now available. He knew the Plymouth code. Would she be home! Of course. Unless she was out. He scratched at his ear, his finger nudging the brim of the hat. For some reason the
woman was off serving somebody else. She had the second Glenmorangie poured but she had left it on the gantry shelf.

It was a pint of Guinness she was attending to, she must have been waiting for it to settle before topping it up, at which point he had come in with his order for the two whiskies. So now she
was finishing the previous customer. Nothing wrong with that. He reached for the jug of water, poured a fair amount into the tumbler. It looked sickly. He wasni a whisky drinker. That was just
that. He shouldni have ordered it. Impressing Fin. Doubles as well. Fucking typical. Foolish. But he was foolish. That’s exactly what he was. A foolish young man. Not a boy. A man. At his age
and in his situation he was no longer entitled to call himself a boy, not even a foolish one, not even in his own head, especially in his own head. That was another fact of life.

Five pound sixty, said the barmaid, the second Glenmorangie in front of him.

Five pound sixty . . . wwh! He got the money out, gave her a tenner. He raised the whisky to his lips while she was getting him the change. But he didnt drink any. It wouldnt be refreshing.
Refreshing is the last thing it would be. There wasnt any drink that would be refreshing now, except tea, a cup of tea. With two sugars. He closed his eyes, smiling, but not at anything in
particular.

Fucking bogging mud man a swamp, an actual swamp, it was fucking a joke. He pulled his foot clear but the boot was still lodged there like it was quicksand and it was going to
get sucked off and vanish down into it forever. He felt the suction hard on his foot but when he pulled, curling his toes as firm as possible, out it came with a loud squelching sound. Thank Christ
for that. He shook his head, studying the immediate area, these marshy stalks of grass were everywhere; fucking hopeless. He glanced back across the wide expanse of waste ground and up to where the
blocks of flats were. But he had to go this way and go this way right now, he was late enough as it was, he just couldnt afford to waste any time. He continued on, steering clear of the clumps of
long weeds, the kind that told you where the worst of it was, but it was bad and each step now his boot sunk in an inch or so, but still not as bad as before. Imagine if he had lost the fucking
boot but Christ almighty, hirpling down the road for the train then into the interview office, trying to explain to the folk there how you had just lost your shoe in a fucking swamp. My God, a
fucking joke right enough. He stopped to look ahead. Then the rain started again and this time it wasnt a passing shower, the sky was full of dark grey clouds, he turned up the collar of his suit
jacket, it was going to get worse, nothing surer. And he would get bloody soaked. What the hell time was it? Aw for fuck sake who cares, he plunged on, veering off towards the banks of the burn.
You could actually hear the roar of the water; so it was probably running awful high. So there was no chance of him crossing at the usual stepping stones, maybe have to skirt right the way round
through the wood to get to the bloody bridge. Aw dear. He hated having to go that way. By this time he had reached the last of the marsh and there was the ordinary grass and the short clumps of
bushes. He passed the wee tree, most of its branches half snapped and trailing onto the ground. A kid’s sock dangled off one of them. Then the slope up to the bank of the burn. It was all
slimy mud here and he had to steady himself by using his hand as a prop, stepping up in a kind of semi-circle. His hands were all muddy now and he had to pull off a couple of big docken leaves to
wipe them clean. The roaring from the burn was really loud now, deafening. He waited a moment up on the bank, staring down at the swollen water, it came rushing, spray flying out, so high it looked
set to overflow the banks. You couldnt even see the stepping stones where he would have crossed, probably about two feet of water were covering them. So that was it now there was no chance, the
path across the bridge or nothing, that was for fucking definite, he just had no choice in the matter. He sighed, blowing out through his mouth. He felt a wee twinge across his shoulders and that
was followed by a shiver. He actually did feel tired although it was only about half eleven in the morning, he felt a bit weak in fact. Then the rain on his head. He felt like going away home
again, back to the fire, cup of tea and put the feet up. It was just a joke, the whole fucking thing. Away in the distance he saw a shape looming into view through the trees, then another one. Two
blokes. They cut off but, taking a different route to get to the flats, up through the field. The rain now definitely getting heavier. He walked as fast as he could along the peak of the bank
without slipping on the fucking mud, arse over elbow into the burn – probably he wouldnt have been able to save himself from drowning for Christ sake. Once upon a time aye, but no now. He
glanced down as he went. The water was flowing that fucking fast. It was years since he had had a swim too, years. High time they extended the path along this way for the poor cunts living up the
flats, the fucking council, it was out of order the way they didnt bother. They had been fucking talking about it for donkeys. He left the bank at the first opportunity, following a narrow trail
into the wood and he took shelter beneath the first big tree. He started shivering again. Just the dampness maybe because it wasnt really cold. And he needed a coat. He really did need a coat man
this was just stupid. He had one right enough he just didnt wear the fucking thing, he didnt like it. It was too big for him for a start, it was his brother-in-law’s. You could have wrapped
it round him twice. But still and all he should have wore it, he could have carried it over his arm and just stuck it on and off, depending on what it was doing, if it was raining or not, he didnt
have to wear it all the time. His suit shoulder nudged against the tree trunk now and he moved from it, it was slimy, it was really fucking slimy. He gave the material a good rub but the stain
still showed, the mud or whatever it was. He caught sight of his boots, all soaking wet and bits of grass and leaves sticking to them, nettles, the lot. Some picture. The wife would be pleased.
Once they dried but they would be alright, brand new – except because of the damp they would turn white probably. They werent that old either, bastard. Just like it when you needed everything
to be right, when you needed to be at your best, the way you looked. Fucking Jesus. My God. Never mind. Never mind. They would do for the time being, as long as they stayed damp they would pass
inspection. If he ever got out of here! Because the fucking rain was pelting down and thick heavy blotches were dropping through the branches of the tree and landing on his nut. Still another half
mile through the wood and he would have to start moving soon, he couldnt afford to wait any longer oh but Christ he didnt want to go he would just have to make a run for it, he would just have to
make a run for it, just forget about the rain because it wasnt going to go off now, it was on for the bloody duration. The smell of the tree was in his nostrils, it was like decay or something like
it was rotten. A lot of the bark had been cut from the trunk here, peeled off. Somebody with a knife. Wee boys probably. Maybe big ones. He studied the bark that was left, the thick dark green
stuff, all crisscross lines and it was like cobwebs inside it, a gauzy sort of stuff; it would be full of beetles, beetles and termites, maggots, all living off it, the bark was there to be eaten,
they would eat it. He jumped suddenly out from the tree and started running, keeping his head down. At places the trail got really narrow and it took sharp angles and he had to slow down to avoid
the traps, the bent branches and the roots and stumps of trees. It was a joke, it was just a joke. Then he was having to walk, he couldnt go any faster, it was just too thick, it was too thick. He
had his hands in his trouser pockets. By the time he arrived in the office he wouldnt be in a fit state for the interview. They probably wouldnt even let him in the fucking door man they would send
for the fucking polis, the way he was looking, the suit all fucking mud and the boots turned white because of the fucking dampness man it was just bloody out of order, you just had no fucking
chance. He needed a car. Every cunt needed a car. That was what happened when you stayed out in the schemes, it was fine till you wanted to go someplace, once you did you were in fucking trouble.
Stupid, it was just stupid. But it was a bastard, it really was a bastard, these bloody fucking bushes and swamps man what could you do, going for a fucking job, just when you needed to look right,
it aye happened, that was the way it went, you just couldnt win, you just couldnt fucking win man never, you could never win. He glanced about him. Then he looked back over his shoulder. A funny
feeling there. He walked on a few paces then slowed again, he stopped. He stopped and listened, he was feeling a bit funny, like somebody was watching him. It was like there was somebody watching
him. He felt the twinge in his shoulders. There
was.
There was somebody watching him. What was it he felt so Christ almighty another shiver, somebody definitely watching him. It was gloomy
and dark now with the trees high and affecting what light there was; shadows, all the bushes, all thick. He stood where he was, he just stood there. Then he felt it again, right across his
shoulders. It was a chill. He had caught a chill. Definitely. He was damp, he was bloody cold. He was oh Christ almighty and he felt it another time now right across his chest as well a sort of
tremor and down his thighs to his knees it was, it was like a tremor, a spasm. But it was his daughter, it was his daughter. Like her ghost was somewhere. He knew it. He knew what it was exactly.
Because it was the sand pit. It was right across the burn from where he was standing and if it was winter and the leaves had fell you would see right across and the sandpit was there, it was right
there, just on the other side. Aw dear, the wee fucking lassie. Aw dear man aw dear it was so fucking hard so fucking awful hard, awful hard so fucking awful hard. Oh where was the wife. He needed
his fucking wife. He needed her. He needed her close. He needed her so fucking close he felt so fucking Christ man the sandpit, where the wee lassie and her two wee pals had got killed. Hiding out
playing chases. Aye being warned to steer clear but in they went and then it collapsed on them, and it trapped them, all these tons of earth and they had all got suffocated. Aw dear. Aw dear. He
stepped in near a big tree and leaned his arms against it, his forearms, crossed, them shielding his eyes, he was greeting without any sound, he just couldnt handle it. He couldnt. He had never
been able to. It used to keep him awake at nights. For ages, fucking ages. He could never get it out his mind. For Christ sake bloody years ago it was, bloody years ago. Oh Christ. She was stronger
than him. The wife. She was. She really was. She could handle it. He couldnt. But she could. She could handle it fine. She got by on it. But he didnt. He couldnt; he just couldnt handle it. He
never could. He had never been able to, he had just never been able to. He opened his mouth to breathe fresh air. The insides of his mouth ached. Throat dry. A wetness at the corners of his lips:
he wiped them with the cuff of his suit sleeve. He had just never been able to handle it; he couldnt come to terms with it at all. These years. All these fucking years. And that wee fucking lassie
oh God man he just could never fucking handle it. Plus as well he would have wanted to be one of them that carried her out. No just her but the other ones, her two wee pals. But he wasnt there. He
didnt know. He just heard about it later. Him and the wife man they never fucking knew it had happened, no till too late, it was too late when they knew. It had been firemen done it and some other
folk who went down. But him and the wife never knew about it till too late, there was nobody telt them. But it was nobody’s fault, they didnt know who it was that was buried, no till they got
them out. The firemen came and cleared out the rubble, then they found them, the wee souls, they lifted them and carried them. He would like even to have seen it. He telt the wife that at the time
as well, just from a distance, it would have been fine as long as he could just have seen them, the wee legs all spindly and them broken like that, their wee bodies. Ah dear, ah dear. He swallowed.
The tears were running down his face again. He shut his eyes tight to stop it. He could feel rain down the back of his neck; his throat was so dry. He flexed his shoulders. Just seeing her would
have been good, smoothing her head and hair, just smoothing her head and hair, that was all. God. Ah God he was feeling better, it was passed. Poor old wife but it was a shame for her, the missis.
She had to carry on. She had to cope. Different for him. Different. He wasnt stuck in the house, he had a job at the time, but she was, she was stuck in the house. Plus she had to look after the
other one. That was what kept her going. Christ almighty he could do with a drink. All this rain and he was dying of fucking thirst. It was past now, finished. He felt better. Aye he could do with
a drink, of water just. The feeling was away, it had gone. There was another twinge now at his knees but it went as well. He shivered again. He was alone. He had to carry on now. He started
walking, following the trail. One thing he did know but, see when he died, he was going to die of a heart attack, he was going to die of a heart attack and he was going to be alone, there wasnt
going to be no cunt, no cunt, he was going to be fucking alone, that was the way he was going to die, he fucking knew it, it was a fucking racing certainty.